The Art
by brighter than sunflowers
Summary: And now it's time... {Eleven's hour is over now - the clock is striking Twelve's} SPOILERS for Time of the Doctor.


The Art

_'__Dying_

_Is an art, like everything else_

_I do it exceptionally well.' _

\- Sylvia Plath

First it was age.

Second his own people

Third the arachnids

Fourth it was prepared for, but still he fell

Fifth to save another

Sixth it was a bang on the head

Seventh a surgical mistake

Eighth with a determined crash

Ninth the golden energy

Tenth as the unwilling saviour

And now you – The Doctor. So long you've been perfecting your art. You are the phoenix. You cheat death.

But what good has it done you?

Here. Now. A battlefield and you've used up your luck. You may be the Eleventh Doctor, but you're the thirteenth body. Death is not fooled by the facade you've used these past few lives. It keeps count. The ticking clock you manipulate had turned its back on you. The Time Lord is out of time. How ironic.

You do what you have always done. Heal. You are a doctor, after all. You've been a grumpy old man, a clown, a dandy, and eccentric all teeth and curls, kind, brash, manipulative, a warrior, a survivor, a hero, but always, in the end, just a doctor.

So you do what doctors do. You help in the best way you can. Cheap tricks offer protection for now.

But not forever.

You know that.

Looking out over the brightly lit and ever so alive town of Christmas you can see it as it will be. A battlefield graveyard. You are to be commended. Even though the weight of the future hangs heavy on your shoulders, you try.

Flash forward in time and you're still here. In the same room. In the same chair. The surroundings so familiar, but you are so different.

And she is back. The girl you sent away has come back to you. Not as your saviour this time, but a final comfort as you slip away.

With grace you walk up to where you will certainly meet your death.

Your art.

All of your practice has led to this.

You had better get it right, or what would those other deaths be for?

She pleads for you. The girl. Down below she begs for what you will not. She sings your praises to the people who were once responsible for your death.

_Help him._

_Help him._

_Help him._

Back on the rooftop you wait for it. Your oldest enemy on the verge of exterminating you once and for all. You stand and prepare to take it.

This isn't you.

Think back to where it all began –

sailing off to see the universe in a raggedy old TARDIS. Will you stand here and accept and accept your fate?

No.

They can tell you the rules, but you will not follow – you never have.

A crack in the wall.

A crack in the sky.

Life floods through, from them to you.

An

Explosion

Of

Light

And then home.

A trail of you is scattered across the floor. It leads... to you. Of course it does. Who else were you expecting?

Stock still you stand and wait.

She thinks you still have a chance. But she should know by now that this – this is your art.

The Lord of time knows that times change and you must too. The girl cries, but it is too late. You've begun to paint your latest masterpiece. The art that was not meant to be.

–

And then there is her.

–

A ghost climbs down the steps. You freeze. She comes towards you. A hand presses against your face. So warm. So real. For a ghost. You can't help but reciprocate. In three words she finishes your art for you. A final comfort.

And then she's gone, your fingers brush air not skin.

A flash of light and your art is at last complete.

Or is it?

It occurs to you for the first time that perhaps dying is not your art at all –

Living is.

**A/N: **Um I don't even know what this is. I just wrote it in an attempt to try and get myself over the death of Eleven (it didn't work) and am pretty sure it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. So sorry about that. The quote at the beginning is from the poem Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath, so thanks to **Alice Indigo Opal** (Side note: go read her stuff, it's amazing) for letting me borrow her book of Plath poetry. In the list of Doctor's at the beginning I just decided to leave out John Hurt's Doctor, because Eight, War, Nine isn't really quite as poetic. And on that note, I would just like to say it was really difficult to think of a nice way to sum up the Sixth Doctor's regeneration. Dear _Time and the Rani _isn't really the best of the regeneration stories...

Thanks for reading.

-Emma.


End file.
